Love's  vengeance  and  other  poems 
John  Denton  Steell 


of  California 
Regional 
Facility 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/\ 


]obn  Demon  Steeii 


Illustrated  by  H.  G.  Villa. 
Los  Angeles  School  of  Art  and  Design. 


[SECOND  EDITION.] 


C.  S,  Sprecher  Press,  Los  Angeles,  California. 


Copyright,  1901 
By  John  Denton  Steell 


preface 

/  offer  this  little  booklet  as  my  humble  contribution  to  the 
literature  of  Southern  California,  It  is  my  firm  conviction 
that  this  "  Our  Italy"  as  Charles  Dudley  Warner  appro- 
propriately  named  it,  is  destined,  in  the  course  of  time,  to 
emulate  its  European  prototype  as  a  center  of  literature  and 
art.  This,  it  seems  to  me,  the  incomparable  climate  of  this 
region,  which  enables  the  writer,  as  well  as  the  artist,  to 
pursue  his  labors  with  almost  equal  comfort  and  facility 
at  all  seasons,  its  many  natural  charms,  and  the  generally 
high  order  of  cultivation  prevailing  among  its  people,  bid 
fair  to  insure.  If  I  can  contribute  in  ever  so  small  a  way, 
to  bring  about  this  consummation,  I  shall  be  well  content  to 
forego  such  advantages,  pecuniary  and  otherwise,  as  a  wider 

field  might  offer. 

J.  D.  S7EELL 


Contents. 

Love's  Vengeance: 

I.  tAt  the  Opera 

II.  After  the  Opera. 

III.  At  Daybreak. 
A  Parting. 

Query. 

Passion. 

What  is  Love  ? 

A  Serenade. 

My  Love. 

Los  Angeles. 

On  San  Diego  Bay. 

Our  Dead  President. 

Sonnets. 


Cove's  Ucngeancc 


at  tbt  Opera* 


see  her  sit  in  her  stage-box  there, 

With  diamonds  gleaming  on  wrists  and  throat. 
Reclining  with  listlessly  indolent  air, 

As  the  tenor  strains  at  his  topmost  note. 


I  watch  her,  hid  in  my  corner  here, 

In  the  shadowy  gallery,  the  furtherest  row. 

And  wonder  to  think  that  a  single  year. 
One  little  year,  could  have  changed  her  so. 

For,  though  scarce  twelve  months  have  flown  since  I 
Was  her  favored  suitor,  I  know  tonight 

All  between  us  has  passed  as  completely  by 
As  if  ages  since  then  had  winged  their  flight. 


The  opera  is  over,  the  curtain  falls, 

The  great  throng  goes  surging  towards  the  door; 
And  the  dream  that  tonight  my  heart  recalls, 

Shall  trouble  me  henceforth,  I  swear,  no  more. 


For  it  is  but  fleeting,  this  jealous  pain, 
Half  born  of  the  music,  the  heat,  the  glare. 

I  am  young  and  hereafter  may  love  again, 
A  being  more  worthy.     Fir  not  despair. 


I  will  take  my  pleasure  and  live  my  life, 
And  yield  me  no  more  to  a  vein  regret. 

Who  would  foolishly  keep  in  his  breast  a  knife? 
Since  she  has  forgotten,  Fll,  too,  forget. 


IT. 

tbt  Opera* 


am  siting  alone  by  my  hearth  tonight, 
In  my  costly  robes,  and  jewels  rare; 
While  o'er  them  the  red  flames  are  flickering  bright, 
And  my  wan  face  set  in  its  dull  despair. 


I  can  see  it  all  in  yon  mirror's  sheen, 

The  glistening  satin,  the  flashing  stones, 

My  drawn,  white  face,  and  dejected  mien, 
And  pale  lips  parted  to  utter  moans. 

At  the  opera  I  sat,  but  an  hour  ago, 

And  the  music  thrilled  in  its  passionate  strain; 

And  I  smiled,  though  my  heart  in  its  terrible  woe 
Beat  fast,  and  throbbed  with  a  deadly  pain. 


Scarce  I  noted  the  garrish,  painteid  scene, 
Nor  false,  reckless  Carmen's  wanton,  guile ; 

For  remorseful  thoughts  of  what  might  have  been 
Through  my  mind  kept  thronging  all  the  while; 

And  I  heard  in  the  music's  pulsing  swell, 
As  the  plaintve  viols  wailed  and  wept, 

A  voice  in  incessant  cadence  well, 

With  a  dreary  burden  of  vain  regret. 

The  memory  of  young  love's  raptures  sweet, 
That  I  ne'er  might  hope  to  know  again, 

Seemed  to  throb  in  my  sad  heart's  every  beat, 
And  like  madness  wrought  in  my  fevered  brain. 

My  husband  sat  near  with  me  with  maudlin  grin, 
I  felt  his  hot  breath  on  my  shoulders  bare. 

Could  a  wish  have  slain — God  forgive  my  sin! 
The  man  of  millions  had  perished  there. 

In  fancy  another  sat  by  my  side, 

With  his  tender  smile,  and  glance  so  true; 

But  he  vanished  quickly,  he  would  not  bide, 
And  my  torturing  anguish  awoke  anew. 


I  laughed,  and  talked  with  a  careless  air, 
Of  the  heat,  the  crush  and  the  donna's  song; 

While  my  soul  kept  wailng  in  wild  despair : 

"How  long  must  I  bear  this?  O  God!  'how  long?" 

I  saw,  as  I  swept  to  my  carriage,  a  face, 
So  woefully  pale,  'mid  the  jostling  crowd, 

And  a  stalwart  form,  with  its  boyish  grace, 
And  dark  eyes  glanced  on  me  cold  and  proud. 

I  fain  to  my  dear  love's  breast  would  fly, 
But  my  husband's  arm  to  mine  did  cling. 

Ah,  could  he  have  known  the  thoughts  that  I, 
His  bride  of  eight  months,  was  pondering! 

Yonder  he  lies  on  his  couch  asleep, 

With  the  flush  of  wine  on  his  bloated  face; 

While  I,  his  plaything,  sit  here  and  weep, 

Bowed  down  with  the  sense  of  my  vile  disgrace. 

I  have  sold  myself  for  these  paltry  gauds, 
And  the  weary  round  of  fashion's  whirl. 

Ah,  these  are  the  gifts  that  a  vain  world  lauds, 
And  that  I  prized  so  as  a  thoughtless  girl ! 


But  now,  a  woman,  too  well  I  know 

How  worthless  is  all  that  I  once  thought  bliss. 

I  would  give  all  that  wealth  could  e'er  bestow 
For  the  rapturous  joy  of  my  dear  one's  kiss! 

Love,  outraged,  has  wrought  a  vengeance  sure. 

He  his  venomed  shafts  at  my  heart  let  fly, 
Where  they  rankling  lodged,  and  naught  can  cure 

The  wounds  they  have  made  there  till  I  die. 

I  must  tread  my  path  to  its  dreary  end, 

While  the  Fates  my  tangled  life-skein  weave; 

And  look  to  Death  as  my  only  friend, 

For  'twere  vain  to  strive  to  the  past  retrieve. 

O  God!  how  long  must  my  journey  be, 

Through  the  desolate  waste  of  barren  years, 

Where  naught  thrives  but  remorse's  gnarled  upas  tree, 
Whose  roots  are  drenched  with  my  scalding  tears? 


1TL 


he  lies  asleep,  with  red  lips  apart, 

And  rose-flushed  cheeks,  and  her  gentle  breath 
Just  stirring  the  laces  above  her  heart; 

And  I  feel  as  I  view  her  the  chill  of  death. 


Ah,  fool !    I  thought  that  gold  could  buy 
That  woman;  now,  I  know,  at  fearful  cost, 

That  only  the  casket,  the  shell,  have  I. 
The  jewel  I  sought  for,  her  soul,  is  lost. 

i 
What  profits  it  all,  the  ceaseless  strife, 

The  breathless  race  for  a  golden  prize? 
We  but  lose  in  its  winning  the  good  of  life, 
That  at  last  flits  vainly  before  our  eyes, 

As  the  mirage's  waters  crystal  clear, 
And  waving  palms,  in  a  desert  land, 

To  the  eyes  of  travelers  lost  appear 
Dying  of  thirst  on  the  burning  sand. 


So  the  devil's  juggling  lies  delude 

Us  purblind  dupes  who  in  them  believe. 

His  glittering  shams  that  at  first  illude, 
Too  soon  we  know  meant  but  to  deceive. 

At  his  booth  we  barter  youth  and  health, 
The  higher  graces,  true  love's  delight, 

For  his  talisman,  which  men  call  wealth, 
That  at  last  works  surely  woe  and  blight. 

I  have  given  her  riches,  station,  power, 

And  have  decked  her  with  jewels  rich  and  rare. 

But  in  vain  these  gifts  I  upon  her  shower. 
They  naught  avail  me;  she  does  not  care. 

I  dwell  with  her  in  this  mansion  grand, 
Stored  with  all  art's  treasures ;  yet  gladly  I 

Would  exchange  with  the  meanest  of  the  land, 
For  the  love  requited,  gold  cannot  buy. 

Last  night  at  the  opera  she  sat  by  my  side. 

In  her  languorous,  calm,  imperious  grace; 
In  her  violet  eyes  a  look  of  pride, 

And  a  faint,  sweet  smile  on  her  perfect  face. 


And  the  thought  her  love  I  ne'er  could  gain, 
For  one  hour  of  which  I  with  life  would  part, 

With  a  pang  of  sudden,  poignant  pain, 
Like  a  deadly  knife-thrust  pierced  my  heart; 

While  borne  on   the  music's  surging  flood, 
Came  a  passionate  cry  of  vain  desire, 

That  with  love's  fever  thrilled  my  blood, 

Till  it  coursed  through  my  veins  like  moulten  fire. 

I  watched  on  the  stage  the  mimic  show 
Of  a  man  through  passion's  frenzy  whirled 

In  a  seething  vortex  of  sin  and  woe; 
And  at  last  to  hopeless  ruin  hurled. 

For  me  were  but  too  dreadfully  real, 
The  passion,  the  sin,  the  jealous  rage; 

Since  all  these  I  even  then  could  feel 
Within  my  bosom  their  tumult  wage. 

What  torment  is  there  in  deepest  hell 

To  compare  with  passionate  love  denied? 

Through  its  madness  history's  pages  tell 
Men  oft  in  blood  their  hands  have  dyed. 


And  this  primal  instinct  moves  today 
Our  souls,  as  it  did  in  times  gone  by; 

And  none  can  resist  its  potent  sway, 

Though  through  it  life's  hopes  all  shattered  lie. 

Who-so  loves  truly  loves  till  death; 

And  I  know  I  must  love  her  still  the  same, 
Till  with  my  last  faint,  fluttering  breath, 

In  fond  devotion  I  gasp  her  name. 


a  farting* 

is  well  you  meet  me  with  a  set,  cold  'smile, 
A  word  of  commonplace,  a  frigid  bow. 

All  is  so  changed  in  but  a  little  while. 

You  loved  me  once,  but  do  not  love  me  now. 


You  fed  the  hungry  monster  in  my  soul, 
Passion's  fierce  tiger  till  it  tore  my  heart. 

You  of  love's  largess  claimed  the  utmost  dole, 
Then  cooly  said  the  time  had  come  to  part. 

Well,  be  it  so,  then.  I  will  go  my  way, 
And  live  my  life,  and  if  I  may  forget; 

But  can  you  look  into  my  eyes,  and  say 
That  you  can  close  the  past  without  regret? 

Have  you  no  memory  of  hot  kisses  rained 

Upon  your  lips,  heart  beating  close  to  heart? 

Can  you  have  over  love  such  mastery  gained 
That  it  may  nevermore  to  being  start? 


I  said  I  might  forget,  but  'tis  not  so. 

I  love  you  now,  and  shall  until  I  die. 
The  fire  you've  kindled  in  my  breast  must  glow, 

Only  to  breathe  out  with  my  latest  sigh. 

So  fare  you  well,  for  though  we  part  for  aye, 
You  shall  not  have  one  evil  wish  from  me. 

But  if  you  bade  me  now,  I  would  not  stay; 

Since  you  have  wished  it,  you  are  henceforth  free. 


Query. 


hy  seek  abroad  the  flower  of  tropic  bloom, 
When  here  the  lovely  rose  yields  sweet  perfume? 

Why  long  in  far-off  realms  to  pitch  thy  tent, 
When  here  a  landscape  fair  yields  sweet  content? 

Why  yearn  for  other  love,  when  one  dwells  near 
Ready  with  all  her  heart  to  hold  thee  dear? 


y  lady  smiles  up  me, 

With  a  smile  so  sweet  and  rare; 
Her  eyes  are  blue  as  heaven, 

Like  the  sunshine's  gold  her  hair. 


My  lady  can  coo  and  murmur, 

In  a  tender  undertone; 
But  my  lady's  heart  within  her 

Is  cold  and  hard  as  stone. 

I  smile  with  my  lady's  pleasure, 

I  sigh  when  my  lady  sighs, 
And  all  my  daylight  brightness 

I  find  in  her  lustrous  eyes. 

But  I  serve  for  Her  Serene  Highness 
As  the  toy  of  a  passing  hour, 

The  slave  of  her  wants  and  caprices, 
The  proof  of  her  beauty's  power. 


I  know  the  fair  enchantress. 

I  have  fathomed  all  her  wiles. 
I  know  how  false  are  her  kisses, 

How  doubly  false  her  smiles. 

And  yet,  at  my  lady's  bidding, 

I  dance  in  my  silken  chains; 
Nor  sigh  for  my  once  prized  freedom, 

While  the  wealth  of  her  smile  remains. 

Alas,  for  a  man's  free  nature, 
Bound  fast  in  so  weak  a  thrall! 

To  give  for  so  poor  a  guerdon 
His  life,  his  hope,  and  his  all. 


Elbat  is  love? 


h,  what  is  love,  my  dear  one?   Love  is  fire, 
Consuming  all  the  soul  with  fierce  desire. 
All  our  life's  treasure  burn  we  on  its  pyre. 
Oh,  what  is  love,  my  dear  one?    Love  is  fire. 


Oh,  what  is  love,  my  dear  one?    Love  i.s  pain. 
Compound  of  doubts,  and  fears,  and  longings  vain. 
Who  once  hath  felt  it,  peace  ne'er  knows  again. 
Oh,  what  is  love,  my  dear  one?    Love  is  pain. 

Oh,  what  is  16ve,  my  dear  one?    Love  is  light. 
Its  roseate  radiance  makes  the  whole  world  bright, 
Nor  is  it  quenched  howso'er  dark  the  night. 
Oh,  what  is  love,  my  dear  one?    Love  is  light. 

Oh,  what  is  love,  my  dear  one?    Love  is  bliss. 
No  greater  joy  can  e'er  life  know  than  this, 
Two  souls  cominglng  in  one  sweet  kiss. 
Oh,  what  is  love,  my  dear  one?    Love  is  bliss. 


a  Serenade. 

low  softly,  summer-breezes,  blow, 
Breathe  through  her  casement  sweet  and  low ; 
And  through  her  chamber  waft  the  scent 
Of  blossoming  rose  and  mignonette, 
Until  in  dreams  perchance  she'll  sail 
Among  the  spicy  Indian  isles, 
Where  bright  eternal  summer  smiles. 

Then,  she  mayhap  might  fancy  me 

Companion  on  a  peaceful  sea, 

Wafted  with  her  by  favoring  gales, 

In  fairy  bark  with  silken  sails, 

To  regions  fair  of  tropic  calm. 

Where  stately  grows  the  feathery  palm. 

And  brightly  glow  strange  fruits  and  flowers 

Among  the  ever  vernal  bowers, 

While  on  the  pearly,  shell-strewn  strand 

The  silvery  wavelets  kiss  the  land. 


Aty  love* 

cross  the  hills  she  trips  along, 
The  sunshine  on  her  golden  hair. 

With  ringing  laugh  and  merry  song, 
As  blithe  as  morning,  and  as  fair. 


Beneath  her  jaunty  hat  her  face, 
Mingling  the  lily  and  the  rose, 

Replete  with  every  living  grace, 

In  blooming  health  and  beauty  glows. 

The  very  flowerets  seem  more  fair, 
That  blossom  'neath  her  fairy  feet ; 

A  brighter  glory  all  things  wear, 

The  dewy  morning  seems  more  sweet. 

I  wonder  if  she  dreams  that  I 
Am  waiting  for  her  at  the  gate 

To  greet  her  as  she  passes  by, 

And  tell  my  love,  and  learn  my  fate. 


Oh,  if  my  hope  be  not  in  vain, 

If  I  alone  possess  her  heart, 
What  better  joy  can  I  attain? 

What  richer  gift  can  life  impart? 

If  I  may  take  her  little  hand, 

AT,  emblem  of  love's  perfect  bliss, 

Slip  lightly  on  this  golden  band, 
And  seal  our  promise  with  a  kiss, 

Whatever  grief  or  loss  I  know, 

I  cannot  be  of  hope  bereft, 
Nor  wholly  yield  my  heart  to  woe 

Since  love,  earth's  sweetest  joy,  is  left. 


los 

ueen  of  the  far-west  land,  rose-garlanded,  azure-zoned,  radi- 
antly lovely; 

On  a  throne  of  amethyst,  gold-chased,  emerald  embossed, 
Under  a  dome  of  stainless  sapphire,  sun-illumined,  and  curtained 
with  silver, 

Thou  sittest  in  stately  majesty,  with  aspect  benign  and  serene. 
k 

Thus  thou  holdest  thy  regal  state,  while  day's  light-robed  spirits 

attend  thee, 

Who  for  thee  bright  hued  chaplets  weave  of  fresh-blown  flowers; 
And    the    mild,  sweet-breathed    Zephyrs,  fair    daughters  of    old 

Oceanus, 
Fan  thee  with  their  downy  pinions'  gentle  winnowings. 


Then,  watched  by  somber  vested  Night,  on  an  ebon  couch  thou 

reposeth, 

'Neath  a  purple  velvet  canopy,  decked  with  glittering  stars, 
And    lit  by  the  moon's  pellucid    lamp;  or  when    rosy-fingered 

Aurora, 

With  her  burnished,  golden  key  unlocks  Morn's  jeweled  gates, 
By  thy  joyous  choir's  sweet,  silvery  warblings  awakened, 

Cometh  forth,  like  a  fair  vestal,  veiled  in  filmy  gauze; 
Or,  bathed  in  blushes,  smileth,  while  Eve  in  thy  bright,  flowing 

tresses 
Doth  gleaming  strands  of  rubies,  topazes,  and  jacinths  entwine. 


Fair  art  thou,  in  all  thy  varied  mood's,  O  favorite  child  of  the 
Sun-god, 

Whose  mother,  Nature,  hath  with  rarest  charms  endowed. 
Her  hand-maids,  the  seasons,  diligent  each  in  thy  service, 

To  thee  bear  rich  treasures  from  her  plenteous  stores. 
Sweet,  radiant  Spring  cometh  laden  with  iris-hued  blossoms, 

To  lightly  strew,  with  lavish  hand,  about  thy  feet. 


Fierce  Summer,  her    fevered    brow  cooled    by  thy  fresh,  balmy 

breezes, 

Embroiders  for  thee  royal  robes  of  cloth  of  gold. 
Placid,    star-eyed    Autumn,    from   the   fields    of   her    bounteous 

harvests, 

Beareth  in  tribute  luscious  fruits  and  sparkling  wines. 
And  austere  Winter,  thy  charms  to  mildness  sooths,  rich,  green, 

silken  vestures 
For  thee  deftly  weaveth  on  silver  shuttles  of  rain. 


On  San  $fego  Bay. 


are  today 

slips  away, 
While  I  sail  this  rippling  bay. 

Calmly  I 

Dreaming1  lie 
'Twixt  the  green  wave  and  the  sky. 

Debonaire, 

Light  as  air, 
Swiftly  skims  my  shallop  fair, 

'Till  the  light. 

Golden  bright. 
Glimmering,  flickereth  on  my  sight. 


In  the  sky, 

Far  and  high, 
Fairy  clouds  like  snow-wreaths  fly; 

And  I  see 

Endlessly 
Changing  views  of  land  and  sea. 

Mountains  brown 

On  the  town 
Silently  are  looking  down. 

Hazy  dim 

Blue  hills  swim 
Yonder  by  the  water's  rim. 

Loma's  height 

Towers  upright 
Like  a  sentinel  of  might, 

Where  his  song 

Loud  and  long, 
Chants  old  Ocean  grand  and  strong. 


Hark  I  hear, 
Sweet  and  clear, 

Gentle  music  strike  mine  ear, 

As  in  rhyme 

All  the  time 
Round  my  bark  the  wavelets  chime. 

Oh,  how  blest 

Thus  to  rest 
Ever  on  the  wave's  soft  breast; 

Ne'er  to  know 

Aught  of  woe, 
Nor  the  false  world's  hollow  show. 


Or  on  fleet 
Wings  to  beat 

To  some  far  and  safe  retreat, 
Where  arise 
'Neath  bright  skies 

The  fair  isles  of  paradise. 


The  last  ray 

Of  the  day 
Fades  upon  my  sight  away; 

And  too  soon 

The  pale  moon 
In  the  darkening  heaven  doth  swoon. 


All  in  vain 

I  would  fain 
This  bright,  fleeting  hour  retain. 

Yet  once  more 

Yon  dark  shore 
Must  I  seek.     My  dream  is  o'er. 


Our  Bead  president. 


(WILLIAM  McKiNLEY  DIED  SEPTEMBER  HTH,  1901.) 

no  more  of  jester's  jibe,  or  cynic's  sneer, 
Hushed  are  the  jarring  sounds  of  party  strife. 
Columbia's  millions  mourn  beside  his  bier, 
Who  in  our  country's  service  gave  his  life. 

In  our  great  sorrow  for  our  fallen  chief 
No  room  is  there  for  rancour  partisan. 

This  mighty  people,  bowed  in  pitying  grief, 
Own  him  at  last  the  nation's  favorite  son. 

'Tis  not  that  at  his  hest  o'er  land  and  main, 
On  wings  victorious  did  War's  eagles  soar; 

And  from  the  tremulous  hands  of  ancient  Spain 
Her  treasured  jewels  of  the  ocean  tore. 

Nor  that  through  him  our  great  republic  won 
In  the  world's  councils  still  a  higher  place; 

And  laid  on  captive  isles  'neath  Orient  sun 
The  strong  dominion  of  our  conquering  race. 


But  that,  after  long  years  of  storm  and  stress, 
He  saw  at  length  a  peaceful  haven  nigh, 

Where,  with  his  dear  companion's  love  to  bless, 
His  final  years  might  pass  untroubled  by. 

And  as,  twice  chosen  by  the  people's  voice 
The  guiding  head  of  our  great  ship  of  state, 

We  recognized  in  him  the  nation's  choice; 
And  so  claim  common  interest  in  his  fate. 

When  stricken  by  a  miscreant's  hand  he  fell, 
A  shuddering  horror  chilled  each  patriot's  blood, 

Over  the  whole  vast  land  a  shadow  fell, 
And  rose  the  people's  anger  like  a  flood. 

'Twas  in  our  causevhe  suffered,  therefore  we, 
As  with  some  dear  one,  shared  his  every  pang; 

And  throughout  his  long  week  of  agony, 
Did  on  the  tidings  from  his  bedside  hang. 

And  now  that  he,  pain's  weary  vigil  o'er, 

Hath  found  relief  in  death's  long,  dreamless  sleep, 

In  weeds  of  mourning  we  his  loss  deplore, 
And  o'er  his  hapless  fate  in  pity  weep. 


In  this  sad  hour  we  know  no  thought  save  grief, 
And  execration  of  the  fiendish  creed 

Of  those,  who  to  all  human  promptings  deaf, 
Inspired  in  maniac's  brain  this  hellish  deed. 

In  him,  our  martyred  leader,  now  we  see 

But  one  who  served  his  country  well  and  long — 

A  man  of  wisdom  and  integrity. 

Who  held  his  course  with  purpose  true  and  strong. 

The  doom  that  laid  him  low  in  manhood's  pride 
Razed  from  our  minds  what  in  him  seemed  amiss; 

In  one  great  sigh  the  voice  of  censure  died. 
Drowned  in  the  assassin's  bullet's  deadly  hiss. 

So  on  the  marble  tablets  of  his  fame 
No  vestige  now  of  blot  or  stain  appears. 

Vanished  is  all  men  might  have  counted  blame, 
Cleansed  by  a  sorrowing  nation's  pitying  tears. 


Sonnets* 

eloved  one,  my  spirit  thrills  to  the, 

As  does  the  wind-harp  to  the  breeze  that  plays, 
Now  sweet,  now  wild,  discordant  melodies. 
What  strain  thou  wouldst,  that  canst  thou  wake  in  me. 
I  am  but  that  which  thou  would  have  me  be. 
Exert  thy  power,  then,  love,  my  soul  to  raise, 
And  purify,  exalt,  and  not  debase. 
My  guardian  angel  let  me  find  in  thee. 
Then  if  my  feeble  songs  can  make  thy  name 
Remembered,  in  the  future  men  will  say: 
"Behold,  this  poet's  lady  did  not  scorn 
His  passionate  love,  nor  brand  his  life  with  shame; 
But  from  her  faithfulness  and  purity 
A  nobler  nature  was  within  him  born." 


he  gentle  moon  controls  the  boisterous  sea, 
And  leads  his  billows  whereso'er  she  list, 
With  all  his  strength  he  cannot  her  resist; 
And  so,  beloved,  neither  can  I  thee, 
But  still  in  all  things  must  thy  follower  be. 

And  since  by  thy  sweet  lips  my  own  are  kissed, 
Though  far  above  me  among  clouds  and  mist 
Thou  shinest,  still,  O  love,  thou  leadest  me 

Upward  towards  thee  and  Heaven.     But  I,  alas; 
Chained  to  the  earth,  can  never  mount  to  thee. 
Though  'gainst  the  rocks  my  spirit's  billows  dash, 
Beyond  their  boundaries  I  may  not  pass; 
Yet  since  such  aim  I  have,  though  vain  and  rash, 
Not  wholly  lost  thy  truth  and  purity. 


How  beautiful  the  full-orbed,  autumn  moon 
Rising  above  the  mountains !    First,  her  light 
With  a  faint,  rosy  radiance  tinges  bright 

The  sky  beyond  yon  tapering  pines.    Then,  mounting 
soon 

In  glorious  majesty,  while  earth  doth  swoon 
In  purple  shades  of  even',  to  the  sight 
Like  a  god's  golden  shield,  she  comes  bedight 

In  all  her  pristine  splendor.    O,  fair  Moon! 
How  soon  is  lost  thy  brighter,  richer  glow ! 

Yet  shining  with  a  purer,  rarer  beam, 

Still  soaring  upward,  thou  dost  seem  to  me 

Like  some  sweet  maiden's  soul,  while  round  whom 

stream 

The  rays  of  dawning  womanhood,  from  below 
Borne  to  the  heights  of  immortality. 


Thank  God  for  every  kindly  human  heart, 
For  every  hand  in  pity  stretched  to  aid 
A  suffering  brother!  Though  a  gloomy  shade 

O'ershadows  our  dark  earth,  while  far  apart 

Among  strange  nations,  do  Love's  couriers  start, 
And  winging  land  and  ocean  undismayed, 
Bear  balm  to  those  affliction  low  hath  laid, 

I  can  but  think,  O  Father!  that  thou  art 
Shaping  to  some  good  end  men's  destinies. 

Not  vain  through  all  the  ages  past  have  run, 
Entoned  by  bard  and  sage,  glad  prophesies 

Of  the  blest  Golden  Age.    We  see  begun 

Its  glorious  reign,  though  but  by  slow  degrees 

The  dark  world  swingeth  nearer  to.  the  sun. 


PAMPHLET  BINDER 

Manufactured  by 

IGAYLORD  BROS.  inc. 

•  Syracuse,  N.  Y. 

•  Stockton,  Calif. 


PS 


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